


A Dish Best Served Cold

by Calico



Category: Gosford Park
Genre: M/M, Missing Scene, Yuletide, challenge:Yuletide 2007, recipient:slinkling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-01-01
Updated: 2008-01-01
Packaged: 2017-10-08 00:01:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,938
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/70619
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Calico/pseuds/Calico
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Everybody hates a tourist.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Dish Best Served Cold

The rain was lashing down outside, and the corridors below-stairs all smelled like wet cat. As was his right as head footman, George lurked out of the way for the most part, stealing the odd blessed lungful of smoke when he got the chance and eyeing the new arrivals with malevolent interest.

 

On the whole, he tended to like visitors - a house like Sir William's did get a bit draughty with just the tightly-laced family at home - but it was immediately apparent that there was something odd about this lot, and George wasn't quite sure he approved.

 

He quickly took a particular dislike to Mr Weissman's man, Henry Denton, who swaggered in like he owned the place and cast an enquiring eye in every direction. He was probably, George reflected, being buggered by his master in return for a soft hand in other matters of discipline. George didn't like that sort of thing; it was unprofessional, unbecoming, and it made him uncomfortable. If Denton wasn't in his master's bed at least three times a week, George would eat his hat. Or do the deed for him - the whelp was crying out for it, watchful insolence like that in a valet - and for all George was not impressed by masters bedding their servants, he had no problem with anyone else bedding anybody at all.

 

Robert Parks didn't seem to be the type to use his bed for anything but sleeping. No, he was a different kettle of fish entirely - not bent by the looks of things, but no eye for Elsie's bodice either, or even Bertha's. He seemed to have no anchor for his roving attention at all. He was gruff with introductions and headed straight for the gun room, where he lingered a long time. George made a note to keep an eye on him as well; he wasn't dishevelled in speech or manner, but he had a curtness that didn't seem to be caused by any one thing in the room - a distractedness - and that was never a good thing if all the goings of a house were to run smooth.

 

Now *Mary* was another matter entirely. A juicy little thing with delicious prospects, George suspected, though she'd been dressed like an old spinster and seemed permanently rattled. George watched her fuss and flutter over Lady Trentham's jewellery, but Elsie persisted in hovering behind her and glaring at him, and he was forced to back away. Fear not, mother hen, this fox knows where he's not wanted.

 

He smirked grimly as he accepted the jewellery box, without touching Mary's thin white fingers, and then he slunk back to his cigarette, thoroughly disenchanted with the day's events so far.

* * *

 

Robert had gone straight to the gun room on his arrival, and had spent several minutes admiring the gleaming prowess of Sir William's well-polished collection. Any one of them, in the right hands, could finish the old man off tomorrow without Robert even lifting a finger... He'd examined them until a man sidled up behind him and said, "Got an eye for a nice barrel, have you?"

 

It was George, the head footman. Robert refused to be flustered. "I've not seen so many in one place before," he said, making his voice as boring as possible. "But you're right, I should be going - which was my room, again?"

 

"You're sharing with Mr Weissman's man," George said, and flashed him a smile. "Which will be much like having a room all to yourself, I shouldn't wonder."

 

Robert raised his eyebrows. "What do you mean by that?"

 

"Oh, nothing," George said dryly, leading him down the corridor and pointing him towards a narrow staircase. "Straight up there, then third on the right. Let me know if he's bothered to bring a nightshirt - Bertha and I have got a wager on."

 

"If you like," Robert said, crooking his mouth into a bemused grin. He didn't really have time for below-stairs gossip or wagers, but it didn't hurt to look interested - it would help him blend in.

 

The room was just a few long strides from the top of the staircase, and he pushed in expecting it to be empty.

 

It contained the most handsome man he'd seen in a long while, sitting on a narrow bed on one side of the room, in just his trousers. He was rummaging through a knapsack on his knee, his bare shoulders flexing.

 

"Hullo," Robert said, trying to remember what George had said. He cleared his throat. "You must be, ah, Mr Weissman's man."

 

"Henry Denton," said the vision, jumping to his feet, grabbing a vest from a crumpled heap on the bed and pulling it on. "And you?" he asked, wetting his lips. His hair was ruffled and the look in his eyes was *indolent*.

 

"Robert Parks," Robert said, and reminded himself that he was *not* here to get side-tracked. He was here to kill his father, and - if the wind was in his favour - get away unscathed. The last thing he needed was this sort of distraction. "Or, Mr Stockbridge," he added, when he realised he'd been staring at Denton's full, shining mouth for longer than was really polite. "Below-stairs."

 

He sat down and began to unpack his bag, setting the framed picture of his mother onto his bedside table. The sight of her steeled his resolve. He had to focus on the task at hand.

 

"Right, below-stairs names," Denton said, nodding, then tilted his head and spoke in a hushed, subtle way that broadened the brogue of his voice: "How does it make you feel, to be known as Mr Stockbridge down here? It's not how they do it in the States," he added, when Robert raised an eyebrow at him.

 

"It's how they do it here. Feeling doesn't come into it."

 

"Right," Denton nodded, lowering himself onto the edge of his bed, "right," and then, cocking his head in the other direction, "so you wouldn't rather be known by your own name..."

 

"I'd *rather* be known as sir and not do a day's work in my life," Robert said, amused. "But I wasn't born that lucky."

 

"Mm," Denton said, and crossed his hands behind his head. The movement stretched his vest tightly across his stomach.

 

Robert glanced at it, then away. He suspected Denton was easily excitable. He did not wish to dwell on this right now.

 

"What's Lord Stockbridge like to work for?" Denton asked, after a moment. He struck Robert as the type who quite liked to be dwelled on.

 

Robert shrugged. "He's alright."

 

"Not cruel, then?"

 

"Not really."

 

"So do you think he and his wife like you, especially?" Denton asked, with an odd persistence.

 

"I don't think they like me or dislike me," Robert said, not sure what Denton was getting at. "They'd have to think about me to lean one way or the other, and for the most part, they don't." They think of their servants as essential, embarrassing commodities, to be kept behind doors and out of sight and called on at the drop of a hat.

 

Irrepressible thoughts of his father, and what *he'd* called on his servants for, welled up darkly.

 

"That's interesting," Denton said, and seemed to be about to ask something else, then didn't when Robert got to his feet.

 

"Speaking of the devil - I'd better check he's got everything he needs," Robert said abruptly, needing to burn off some of the bitter energy that filled him at every thought of his father.

 

Denton was looking up at him thoughtfully. "And who," he murmured, "makes sure you've got everything *you* need?"

 

The look in his clear dark eyes was unmistakably lewd. "Oh, I manage alright," Robert said airily, as if he'd failed to understand. "I'm quite self-sufficient."

 

"I can imagine," Denton said, with a crooked smile. Robert had a sense that Denton was imagining it right now, in fact, in salacious detail. "Well, just so's you know, *I* don't mind looking out for you whilst we're under the same roof," Denton said. His smile turned guileless. "Say, if you fancy a drink later on, when we've got a spot of free time..."

 

*Later on my plans include murdering the lord of the house and then evading the police*, Robert didn't say. He gave Denton a wry grin. "You've never worked in a house like this before, have you?" he said. "There's no such thing as free time."

* * *

 

The rain held off for the following day's shooting, just long enough for Sir William to get grazed by a bullet and turn really very grumpy indeed.

* * *

 

Mary's shoes were pinching at the toe, and the extra vest she'd thrown on under her uniform - like armour - itched. She frowned as she walked, trying to calculate the quickest possible route back to the grounds, keeping to the brighter corridors if at all possible and avoiding the likes of George and Henry.

 

After her lukewarm bath this afternoon, Lewis had come to her in a rush to ask her to fetch Lady Sylvia's spare stole, because Sir William had managed to get some specks of blood - of all things! - on her best stole and Lewis had her hands full saving it from staining. By Mary's reckoning, it would take her as long to find the blasted thing and navigate back as it would have taken Lewis to do both tasks - but the poor woman seemed fairly flustered, and Mary did have younger legs.

 

So, she'd hurried, and because she knew Lady Sylvia was downstairs she'd eased the door open and slipped half-inside before freezing in shock, inhaling a sharp silent breath. The depravity!

 

She knew immediately that she should have knocked and waited to be called in; and that she would *not* have been called in at all.

 

The were both fully clothed, for what that was worth - a quick getaway, presumably. Henry Denton was standing with his face tipped back, light reflecting starkly off the ceiling onto his plump parted lips, washing out the colour of his cheeks. His eyebrows were drawn, his eyelashes shuttered, and his lips fluttered noiselessly with every slide of his hips against Mr Weissman's face.

 

For it was Mr Weissman, sitting back on his haunches with his balding head cupped in Henry's hands, his own hands pawing at Henry's hips and stomach, making low wet cut-off gasps as Henry pushed rhythmically and curled his fingers around Mr Weissman's ears.

 

Mary held the door close to her as one horrified thought struck her especially hard: but this is Lady Sylvia's room! The cheek of it, she thought, amazed. She was filled with a righteous warmth, at the disgrace of the scene before her - for a servant to stand amongst Lady Sylvia's finery and be *fellated* by a guest of the house!

 

Perhaps a draught reached him from the door she held open, or perhaps her silent outrage had somehow changed the atmosphere of the room; all at once Henry's eyes opened, focusing on her in blue-glazed surprise. He sighed hard through his teeth but didn't pause or break off, didn't stop moving against Mr Weissman in slow, steady thrusts.

 

Mary realised that he meant for her to silently leave. She glared.

 

It took Henry a moment to notice, and then he blinked hard, swallowing, and the corner of his mouth twitched up. He lifted one hand from the back of Mr Weissman's head and pointed at her, then tapped his eye, then shook his head and mouthed *nothing*.

 

And that was just - how dare he! Mary drew herself up and opened her mouth to exclaim her outrage, fully aware that it would breach the trusted blindness that above-stairs requested of below-stairs and not caring a fig-- and Henry's face turned pleading, even as Mr Weissman let out a low moan and pushed his fingers up beneath Henry's shirt.

 

The honest flash of fear in Henry's eyes made her reconsider. Mr Weissman was a guest in the house, after all, and Henry clearly wasn't committing this degradation against his master's will. Perhaps he had been *ordered* to... receive, like that.

 

It didn't bear thinking about.

 

Mary made a fist and deliberately held up one finger to him, then backed gingerly out of the door, pulling it closed behind her. She counted down one minute, her thoughts whirling. The corridor had a chill to it, and even under her extra vest she was shivering. She tried not to imagine what Henry was doing in there, and momentarily forgot what she was waiting for.

 

Then she decided that a minute must have elapsed, and knocked firmly. She waited to be called, imagining Mr Weissman scrambling to his feet, looking around in panic, wiping his mouth; wondering against her will whether Henry had spent his energies, or was even now tucking himself away with a dark thought for her interruption.

 

She knocked again.

 

"Come in," Mr Weissman croaked, and Mary pushed inside and feigned surprise.

 

"Oh, I'm so sorry, I thought everybody was still outside," she began, looking anywhere but at Mr Weissman's red mouth.

 

"What are you doing here? I thought Lewis was Lady Sylvia's maid," Henry put in quickly, though his voice was husky.

 

"Lewis asked me to fetch Lady Sylvia's spare stole," Mary said, turning her attention to him. His eyes were glittering.

 

"How irregular," Henry drawled, and Mary bit her tongue against saying *yes, well, speaking of irregular*--

 

"She said it would be in the wardrobe," she said instead, looking past him, and then Mr Weissman was saying hastily,

 

"Well, yeah, we'd better - be getting going," and strode past her through the door, pink-faced.

 

"Aye," Henry murmured, following in his wake, and as he passed he caught hold of Mary's hand and, turning back towards her, pulled it slyly against the front of his trousers. She could feel him warm and hard beneath the fabric, and pulled her hand sharply out of his grasp. "See you downstairs," he said lightly, and headed after his master.

 

Mary brushed her hands hard off on her sleeves and went immediately to the wardrobe. She withdrew the thick, luxuriant stole, concentrating on the silky slippery warmth of its fur as she folded it carefully into her arms. Something was very wrong with the encounter she'd just disturbed, but it quickly occurred to her that it wasn't her *job* to think about that.

 

*Her* job was one she was currently doing quite poorly: Lewis would be wondering where she'd got to, and Lady Sylvia would probably have a sharp word for them both if she'd been suffering the cold all this time. Mary pulled the door tightly closed behind her, and hastened back downstairs.

* * *

 

George was in a horrible mood.

 

As if Sir William getting shot wasn't enough for one afternoon, George had also been treated to the ignominious sight of Henry Denton slipping a hand into Mr Weissman's enormous fur coat whilst the rest of the party fussed around Sir William's bloody ear.

 

The pair of them slipped off after tea, with Mr Weissman saying he'd booked a call to California that he simply *had* to make, and Denton trotting behind him with a smile that made George's fingers itch.

 

He watched Denton narrowly when he returned to make ready for supper. He had a cheerful glow about him, an air quite unlike any servant George had ever known. And yet, it was only the fact that he was in service like the rest of them that made the situation at all bearable. Was it *his* fault if his master gave him a long leash?

 

Even so, George had never seen a fellow lap up to his treatment like Denton did. Taken out shooting, of all things! Treated like Sir William treated that blasted dog. It didn't sit right at all.

* * *

 

On the way back from returning Lord Stockbridge's leather gloves to his room, Robert checked that the carving knife was still safe in the fire bucket by the servants' door. He couldn't resist testing the edge with his thumb, almost teasingly. He barely felt the bite of it, just distantly noted that it was still as sharp as when he'd stowed it away.

 

He moved on, padding quietly back to where he was supposed to be. He smiled when he was supposed to smile, and served with single-minded efficiency. There was no room in his brain for any spare thoughts, now; he was running on instinct, just waiting for an opportunity to strike.

* * *

 

Mary's nerve almost failed several times before supper, but then she saw Denton trail a lingering finger up Elsie's wrist and something snapped inside her.

 

"A word," she said steadily, intercepting him on the stair and nodding back at the darkened pantry.

 

Henry grinned. "By all means," he said, and followed her into the gloom until they were standing between shelves upon shelves of jars and bottles, dully gleaming. "Why, Mary," Henry said, panels of light on his face, reaching slowly for her, "whatever is the--"

 

"You can drop the accent," Mary said, looking him full in the eye. The last time she'd been alone in a room with him, he'd wrestled her onto a bed. She took comfort in the close confines of the glass jars - they would surely draw plenty of attention if they all started smashing, for some reason.

 

Henry blinked. "What accent?" he demurred, and Mary winced and said,

 

"*That*, that horrible excuse for a native brogue," and then, lowering her voice, she said, "Look, I know you're not Scottish, and that's not even what bothers me."

 

There was a pause, and then Henry tilted his head and said, "Go on?"

 

"What bothers me is you were in Lady Sylvia's *room*," Mary said, in a fierce undertone. "What you were doing there is your own business, but you being there at *all* shows you've got no respect for our system-- I may be inexperienced but I know what's right and you, you just broke every rule in the book. And you don't even care."

 

There was another pause. "Hmm," Henry said, regarding her closely. She could have smacked him. "That's interesting," he said, and he'd dropped the act, he was speaking in an American accent and the realisation that he'd admitted it gave her a cold, dreadful thrill. "Why is *that* the most, ah, shocking thing about what you saw? Would you really say that *trespassing* is a bigger taboo here than homosexuality?"

 

Mary glanced anxiously over her shoulder to be sure that the door was still safely closed. "Keep your voice down," she said. "I'm not here to answer your questions."

 

"What'll you give me to answer yours?" Henry asked slyly, and Mary did smack him this time, a short slap across the cheek before she'd even thought about it. "Ow," Henry protested, touching his face and smiling. "Touchy. Was it something I said?"

 

"It was how you said it," Mary said shortly, her hand tingling, sorely tempted to do it again. "Now listen here. You need to keep your hands to yourself, or I'll make sure *everybody* knows that you're not who you say you are, and whatever project you and Mr Weissman are undertaking will get full scrutiny, above *and* below-stairs. We take a dim view of impersonators, Mr Denton," she finished darkly, and Henry was silent for a long moment, and then, like music to her ears, sighed.

 

"Fine," he said, "I'll cross you off the list."

 

"And the rest of the girls," Mary said, and Henry gave her a long-suffering look.

 

"Now that's hardly fair. What if they *want*--"

 

"Maybe let *them* be the judge of if they want it," Mary said, and Henry showed her his palms.

 

"Deal. If you don't tell anyone."

 

"Deal," Mary said, and then, "no," when he held out his hand to shake on it.

 

"Worth a try," Henry said, with an unrepentantly charming grin, and then he was walking back to the door. "Oh, and Mary," he added, back in his painful Scottish accent, "in answer to your question - we just went in because I left my jacket in Lady Sylvia's room last night. Forgot to pick it up in the dark. And then got carried away," he murmured, smug and too loud in the gloom. "You know how these things are."

 

"Thankfully I don't," Mary replied acerbically. Visions of Lady Sylvia cavorting with Henry Denton swam briefly through her mind before thankfully dissipating. Honestly, some people - no taste at all.

* * *

 

It took Robert a minute to realise that his life hadn't ended. There was no scream or yell, no shuddering body - he must've struck true, stuck him right in the heart. Sir William was face-down on the desk before he knew it, silent as a lamb, and as the thundering of Robert's blood faded in his ears he realised that so far, so good.

 

Now he just needed to get away clean.

 

The library clock said ten-to-midnight. Robert retraced his steps and reached the welcoming shadows of the corridors with relief pounding wildly inside him. He'd done it. He'd given him what for, given him more than that paltry clip to the ear from yesterday's shooting; he'd caught the fat old bastard like a sitting duck in his own library, and it felt *good*.

 

He felt an unfamiliar tension in his cheeks, and realised he was smiling so hard his face might crack. His body was singing to him; he wanted to fight or fuck or possibly howl at the moon.

 

He took a left, then a right, almost tempted to lose himself in the guts of the house, tempted to find a bottle of their finest vintage and let himself *go*, but no - he needed to rejoin the party. Needed an alibi. He had to show his face to Mary, to everyone, and bask in borrowed Novello's performance like a good little servant.

 

An hour ago the music would have been meaningless. Now he heard the faint rum-pum-pum of Novello playing in the distance, and found himself almost looking forwards to it. Maybe he'd dance - or sing! He could dance with Mary. He shook his head, grinning to himself. He'd *rather* steal her away from the show altogether, take her to bed and teach her a trick or two - but she wasn't that type, and he didn't think much of men who pushed themselves on women, men cut from the same mould as his father.

 

He quickened his pace, telling himself that a kiss was probably the most he could hope for, and then he rounded the corner and found himself face to face with Henry Denton, looking eminently fuckable and guilty as sin. Robert felt his smile harden into something hungrier as his plans for the evening changed all at once.

 

"I've been looking for you," he lied. All the thoughts he'd tamped down on yesterday rose in his mind, bright and eager. Here was a man he wouldn't mind pushing up against at all.

 

"Did Mary send you?" Denton asked immediately, his voice even odder than usual. There was a hunted look to him.

 

Robert squared his shoulders. Mary had told him a little about what he'd walked in on yesterday - not much, but enough for him to get a picture of it. Denton, not letting her up until she screamed. It wasn't a pretty picture.

 

"She told me," Robert said, "but I came of my own accord," he added, thinking that yes, defend the lady's honour, that would also be sufficient to burn off his excess energy whilst providing a handsome alibi. Less fun than the alternative, but...

 

"Shit," Denton sighed, "I knew it," and he sounded more than odd, he sounded - *American*. "Did you tell anyone?"

 

"Not yet," Robert said slowly, giving Denton a slow once-over with his eyes. He thought back to Mary's squealing yesterday - she'd been sorely ruffled, but Denton hadn't looked like it had been much of a struggle, and the wet-mouthed gaze he'd turned on Robert had been more an invitation than anything angry. And if Denton didn't give a fig for Mary's honour... there was something else.

 

Now he thought about it, Denton looked better rested and more freshly scrubbed than any valet Robert knew. Robert chose his words carefully, trying not to sound suspicious, trying to sound as if he were already in the picture. "What will you give me not to tell?"

 

Denton laughed shortly. "I've got nothing to my name," he said, and all at once Robert remembered Denton's offer of a drink last night, the sly look in his eyes that Robert had mistaken for a clumsy seduction he'd been too preoccupied to take up at the time.

 

"You've been pumping me for information all weekend," he said lightly, as if he hadn't just realised this fact. You're not who you say you are *at all*, you manipulative bastard. Robert rested one hand casually on the wall, heat prickling in his fingers. He let his voice go soft and sure. "You owe me something in return."

 

He was watching Denton's face closely enough to see his lovely mouth move uneasily before Denton said, "What do you want?"

 

In answer, Robert took a step towards him and ran a finger down Denton's shoulder.

 

Denton gave him a sharp, breathless grin that looked like anticipation and relief all bundled into one. "Oh, Parks," he drawled, his voice hushed and fervent, "you could've had that for free."

 

"Could I?" Robert said slowly, amused despite himself, and glanced down the corridor. "Go on, then."

 

"Here?" Denton asked, and for a moment he looked like he would do it, sink to his knees in full view of any stray footman-- and suddenly Robert was hard, his pulse hammering hot in his ears, and he wanted to get this amoral, thoughtless creature somewhere private.

 

"No," Robert said roughly, taking his elbow and dragging him through the nearest door, "in here." The room within was dimly shadowed, towering plush curtains parted around a wedge of gleaming night sky. Moonlight shone in across a window seat, a piano, and - ah, and a fireplace, dark and grand, with thick rugs spread before it like a welcoming bed.

 

Robert pushed the door shut behind them until it clicked, and then barely had time to blink before Denton was kissing him, shoving him back against the door and running his hands greedily over Robert's chest. Robert inhaled sharply at the unexpected press of Denton's tongue into his mouth; he was surprisingly eager in this matter that Robert had, despite everything, somehow still imagined an imposition.

 

"Parks," Denton muttered, as Robert slid his fingers up into Denton's soft hair and kissed him back, and Robert broke off to mutter irritably,

 

"Robert," and Denton gasped,

 

"Henry," and Robert said dryly,

 

"So at least that *is* your real name."

 

Apparently it touched a nerve. "God," Henry said, exasperated, even as he breathlessly kissed Robert's throat, his ear, pulling their hips together and rubbing, "you lot are unbelievable - I'm just an actor, I've not done anything *wrong*."

 

An actor. An *actor*. "Right," Robert agreed mildly, staring abruptly cold into the darkness over Henry's shoulder, shivering as Henry's wet mouth slid hungrily over the juncture of his neck and shoulder, but utterly grounded in his mind. An actor.

 

*That* was what Henry thought he already knew.

 

Henry's hands moved as he began to kiss down Robert's chest, tugging up his shirt and undershirt and nuzzling the revealed skin of his stomach. Robert put a hand on each of his shoulders and pressed firmly, and Henry laughed tolerantly, sinking to his knees.

 

"Okay, okay," he murmured teasingly, and Robert flicked open his fly and pulled out his cock, offering it to Henry's mouth and gritting his teeth. Enough fooling - he wanted to speed this up. He wanted a break from his thoughts, even as his mind began to churn, casting back and paying attention now to all the little details he'd been too busy to notice before. Henry leaned in readily, loosely holding Robert's hips and dropping kisses all over his cock, his damp lips grazing Robert's knuckles and dragging sweetly over the head.

 

Robert took a deep breath and tried again not to think about anything. He wanted this to be simple, wanted to lose himself in a nice wet mouth and then go back to the party, with the shameful, reluctant excuse of a sordid encounter *with a man* should anyone demand to know where he'd been when the murderer struck. He didn't want it any more complicated than that.

 

And yet--

 

His thoughts broke off as Henry breathed out hotly over him and then began lapping softly with a pointed tongue. Robert hissed and rocked forwards, tightening his fist around his cock and reaching with his other hand for the back of Henry's head. "Come on," he said softly, trying not to stroke himself. "There's no need to tease."

 

"I'm just getting started," Henry said, and Robert thought yes, you like to tease, don't you? You like to feel in control, to hold one over the rest of us...

 

He planted his feet more firmly and cupped the back of Henry's head, holding his cock steady for him. "Please," he said softly, and he was going to push it, demand it, nudging with his whole palm, when Henry's soft, full lips parted around the head of his cock, and took him inside.

 

Robert bit down on a grunt of pleasure, squeezing himself hard and then shuddering as Henry slid down until his lips were brushing the edge of Robert's fist. The heat of his mouth, moving wetly over the head of his cock, was like a flash of fire through every one of Robert's nerves.

 

He stared down, breathing hard, unable to make out Henry's face in the darkness, but it was all too easy to imagine the porcelain hollowing of his cheeks, the slant of those well-bred cheekbones as Henry sucked him, rhythmic and eager.

 

Of *course* he was an actor; servants were never so luminously pretty. *Scots* were never so pretty, not Scots working in English households. There were tales of hardship in the face of every working man here, and girl besides - hard lines and shadowed eyes, scars from kitchen scalds or raw labour, or just too few hours of sleep in too many years.

 

The only servant Henry Denton looked like was one from a Hollywood movie. And yet, they'd taken him in, with his too-thick accent and too-charming smile, and willingly let him play the lot of them for fools.

 

Robert felt a burst of hot anger low in his stomach, and tugged Henry to his feet again, almost relishing the shock of cold against the wet straining of his cock. "You're driving me mad," he muttered, against the side of Henry's face, reaching for the front of Henry's trousers and finding him hard through the smooth cloth.

 

Henry made a low ragged noise in his throat and pushed against Robert's hand, tipping his jaw to let Robert's mouth find his ear.

 

Robert squeezed him through his trousers as he ran his tongue along the shell of Henry's ear. He waited until he felt Henry shudder and then breathed, "I want to fuck you, will you let me?" and Henry panted hotly and groaned,

 

"You just had to ask."

 

Robert smirked and nipped at Henry's earlobe, biting harder than he would have if he'd cared for him, and Henry groaned again, loud enough that Robert winced and clapped a hand over his mouth; and then it was all too easy to manhandle him across the room and push him down onto the thick, decadent rugs surrounding the fireplace.

 

Henry went down easily on his back and pulled Robert down on top of him, wrestling first Robert's trousers down and then his own, and hissing as Robert's weight slid their cocks together hard, the waistband of his trousers digging into the middle of his thighs. There was a misty glow of moonlight here, just enough to see Henry's eyelashes dark and flat against his cheeks, his mouth jutting swollen, invitingly open.

 

Robert kissed him, pulsing his hips to slide his cock against the warm smooth skin of Henry's stomach, beneath the soft brush of Henry's shirt. Waves of sensation flooded through him, and he let himself sink into it for the first time, relaxing into the desires of his body since it now seemed like he was going to get what he wanted without a fight.

 

"Parks, God," Henry muttered against his mouth, stroking both hands frantically up Robert's sides, over his shoulders, "you've no idea, a real man, you feel so-- *ah*," as Robert braced himself on one hand and tried to wrap the other around both their cocks, pumping and pressing them together. "Oh, *god*," Henry said, almost incredulous, and if he was acting now, he actually *was* very good.

 

"Shush," Robert said, through clenched teeth, and let go to press his fingers across Henry's lips. Henry sucked them immediately, with a wet swirling of his tongue, and Robert thought helplessly about kneeling over him and pushing his cock back into this truly filthy mouth-- and then Henry was pulling Robert's hand down and nudging it between his legs, and Robert closed his eyes and stopped thinking entirely.

 

Henry made a low crooning sound when Robert pushed two wet fingers inside him, tightly yielding and pushing against his hand, sliding himself down onto Robert's knuckles without a word of coaxing.

 

Robert realised he was breathing unevenly, and dragged in a couple of deep breaths to keep from embarrassing himself. Henry seemed to have no such restraint: he squirmed down on Robert's fingers, letting him slide in a third with apparent ease. He bucked upwards when his cock brushed Robert's side, until Robert's fingertips were as deep as they'd go.

 

"Please, yes," Henry said faintly, as Robert twisted his fingers out, and Robert moved to kneel over him, straddling his hips, and bunched one hand in the front of Henry's shirt.

 

"Come here," he said, tugging him up into an ungainly curve, bringing Henry's mouth to his cock once more. Henry sucked and kissed his cock with a breathless enthusiasm that almost tipped Robert over the edge, and as stars began to flash behind his eyes he had to force himself to pull back. "Turn over," he managed, and Henry moved within the confines of Robert's thighs, turning onto his stomach and presenting his pale, round arse.

 

Robert sank down on top of him with a groan, nudging his wet cock between Henry's thighs and stroking one hand possessively through his hair, almost forgetting to keep quiet in his eagerness to work himself inside. He had to hold himself to get the angle right, had to spit on his hand a few times and push Henry's thighs a little more open and really press *hard*-- and then he was home, sliding inside him, biting the inside of his mouth to keep from groaning out loud.

 

"Oh, yes, oh," Henry gasped, and Robert got a purchase on his hip with one hand and braced himself against the floor with the other, sinking deeper cautiously at first and then thrusting involuntarily when his hips nudged Henry's arse.

 

Henry made another breathless set of noises that had Robert worrying briefly about eavesdroppers, and then Henry was pushing back against him, curling his spine like a cat and sliding himself firmly on Robert's cock, and the stars flowed back into Robert's vision from all sides.

 

"Yes, *yeah*," Henry said tightly, his breath hitching unevenly, and Robert bent low over him and shoved into him hard and fast, until he could hear that hitch in every single strangled breath, and then fucked him harder until Henry's endless gasps and moans faded into the background beneath the Robert's own laboured breathing, beneath the clamour of his own pulse in his ears.

 

He started to get where he wanted to be, climbing shining away from the rest of the world. Pursuing it, he realised distantly that he needed a change in angle, and pulled Henry selfishly to his hands and knees and *buried* himself inside him, time and again.

 

"Oh, *yeah*," Henry whimpered, slamming back against him, and Robert let go and fucked him just as hard as his hips wanted to, curling a hand around Henry's mouth to curb those damn *noises* and then he was coming, shuddering and jerking with it, and he felt the built-up tension and anticlimax of executing Sir William leave him in a dreamlike, heady rush.

 

Strange how killing a man and fulfilling his adult life's ambition could feel less momentous than a stolen fuck with a self-indulgent tourist.

 

He stayed inside him for a few heavy sweating heartbeats, then withdrew and, feeling magnanimous, rolled Henry over again and took his heavy cock into his mouth. Henry made a strangled noise and clutched at the back of Robert's head, and Robert grimaced and plucked his hands off again and pressed them into the floor. The rug was soft under his fists. He sucked him steadily, doggedly riding the unsteady upward thrusts of Henry's cock for a minute or so and then throwing his arm across Henry's hips and pressing strongly down - and *that*, it seemed, was the key, because Henry groaned and shuddered, and gave a series of hard shallow pushes, and emptied himself hotly into Robert's mouth.

 

Robert swallowed and swallowed and pulled carefully off him, shaking his head in amusement - even in the heights of climax, Henry had an impudence about him that clearly loved to be cowed. He wiped his mouth on the heel of his palm and sat back on his haunches, swallowing again, his head ringing peacefully.

 

"Now *that*," Henry drawled, sprawled on the luxuriant rug and breathing deep, "just made this whole damn trip worthwhile."

 

Robert remembered, just like that, why he hated him.

 

"All the bowing and scraping," Henry murmured, "and the *dreadful* mattresses-- do you know, I think this *rug* is more comfortable than those straw-like pallets in our room?"

 

"Really," Robert said quietly, righting his trousers and tucking himself back in. He felt a sudden regret that Henry had enjoyed it quite so much. And himself - it felt like he had sacrificed his chance to teach him a lesson in favour of his own temporary gratification. "I need to get back to work," he said, neglecting to add, "*some of us have to*."

 

"Mm, okay," Henry said lazily, and it struck Robert that the reason Henry had been so guilelessly noisy in sex was that the bastard had nothing to lose. His secret was already out, he thought - discovery would only cost *Robert's* job.

 

Robert rose to his feet, his head briefly spinning, and tried to remember which direction the library lay in. He'd better avoid it. He hadn't heard screaming yet, so they probably hadn't found out - all the more reason not to linger here.

 

"Say," Henry said, pushing up on his elbows and tilting his head artfully, "I hope I'll be seeing you later, back in our room?"

 

Robert looked at him for a long moment, thinking oh, to be in his early twenties again, and then realised that at least Henry's insatiable appetite meant he could deny him *something*. "No, I don't think you will," he said, as distantly as if he were talking about a new duty for the morning.

 

"Oh," Henry said, after a moment. In the dim glow of dusty moonlight, he looked like a sulky adolescent when he frowned. Sounding very put out, he asked, "Why not?"

 

Robert shrugged. "I'm not partial to manipulative bastards, when I'm in my right mind," he said, and let himself out, heading back downstairs in time to be smiled at by the other servants shortly before the aristocratic screams began.

* * *

 

The morning after the murder of the master of the house, there were a lot of things the head footman should have been concerned with. George knew this. But the thing he was most concerned with was the impudence of Henry Denton, now revealed to belong firmly above-stairs - with all the lack of wit which that entailed.

 

George had known since the beginning there was something amiss with that pampered little twerp, and now there he was, strutting around like the cock of the yard in his tweed and britches, with that quite awful drawl.

 

"Oversexed and overpaid," George told Bertha authoritatively, who chuckled behind her hand. "And the way he talks - so *drowsy* - well, this should wake him up a bit, don't you think?" he said, brandishing his tray.

 

"Coffee?" she asked, her eyebrows raised, her eyes twinkling. Always gratifyingly fond of a joke, was Bertha.

 

"Coffee," George confirmed quietly, with a sly nod, and marched into the drawing room.

 

"Mm," Denton said vaguely, when he approached, brandishing the tray, "no coffee, George, but I'll have a--"

 

You'll have coffee, George thought succinctly. He deftly fumbled the cup from one hand to the other, saving the china whilst sending a hot dark cascade, in Hollywood slow-motion, across Denton's overused lap. It was as petty and delicious as George could ever have dreamed.

 

Denton yelped like the pampered puppy he was, and George gave his best impression of scandalised contrition. "I do apologise, sir," he exclaimed, his good mood instantly restored, keeping the relish from his voice with difficulty. "Can't imagine how that happened..."

 

As Denton's mouth worked furiously, George called obsequiously for a towel, satisfied that justice had been duly metered out.

 

The world was at rights once more.


End file.
